


Sweater Weather

by Caissa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Autumn, F/M, Fluff, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 00:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12642051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caissa/pseuds/Caissa
Summary: A cozy fall morning with Bedelia and Hannibal. For electric-couple's "autumn" prompt.





	Sweater Weather

It is a picture-perfect fall morning, the sunlight mellow and bright as it filters through the golden oaks outside Hannibal’s home. Just the right amount of crispness in the air, like the feeling of biting into a tart Macintosh apple.

Hannibal answers the door, waist apron slung over a burgundy cashmere sweater, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair has fallen softly into his face. It’s like his sharp edges have been blurred, altogether much cozier a portrait than his person suit normally allows. Bedelia thinks. “Dr. Du Maurier,” he says with warm delight, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“I brought he journals you requested. I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought you might appreciate them sooner rather than later,” she says, reaching into her thick leather satchel to hand them over.

Bedelia feels Hannibal’s clever eyes flick over her, taking in her own weekend attire of oatmeal-colored Shetland sweater, dark denim, and polished leather riding boots. “The Mt. Vernon farmer’s market, of course,” he says, noticing the small tote bag slung over her left shoulder. “Please, won’t you come in.”

Bedelia is about to say no, to remind him again that he is her patient and colleague, not her friend, but the delicious smells wafting from Hannibal’s kitchen—cinnamon and sugar, apple and nutmeg and freshly baked pastry—are too appealing to resist. He guides her through the door, back to his kitchen, a room she has never entered before. She can admit to herself she is curious and rationalize this blurring of boundaries as yet another attempt to gain perspective on her patient’s life. It’s not as if she’d accepted an invitation to one of his dinner parties.

She sets aside the stack of journals on an empty counter and surveys the room, clearly the beating heart of Hannibal’s home. There are two apple pies cooling on a prep table, but they are unlike any she has ever seen. Ornate leaves and berries adorn a perfectly browned and buttery crust. She watches, mesmerized, as Hannibal cuts out oak and maple leaves; there is something wonderous to behold, the delicate fragile dough as worked by a surgeon’s hands. She finds herself smiling slightly in spite of herself.

Hannibal is not one to let a smile of hers go unremarked upon. “What has you so amused, Doctor?”

“I was only thinking what a joy it is to see a master craftsman at his work,” she tells him. It is the honest truth, not idle flattery. And one of them has to be honest, she always says.

“I feel the same way when I see you at work in one of our therapy sessions.” He turns aside to place the pie in the oven, giving her a rather spectacular view of his rear. Bedelia lets her gaze linger for only the briefest of seconds.

“If you truly want to see me at work, Doctor, you must finally do me the honor of accepting one of my dinner invitations.” Before she can respond with her usual protest, he holds up an oven-mitt covered hand. “I know. You feel it would be inappropriate. Yet, I will continue to invite you and respectfully disagree.”

“Are all of these for a dinner party?” she asks, envious of the guests who get to taste them.

He points at the two pies cooling on the counter. “Not a party of mine. They are for my friend Mrs. Komeda’s fall soiree tonight. I had promised her I would bring dessert. The rest are just because I was in the spirit.” He turns toward the refrigerator and opens it, bringing out a pumpkin pie with a perfectly piped scalloped edge of whipped cream. “If you wanted to sample something, I believe this should be ready.”

Bedelia hesitates briefly before saying, “It seems rude to decline.”

He smiles back at her, eyes sparkling with a dark depth. He looks at her like he is in love with her in that moment, and she has a hard time reminding herself that he is just a patient. He cuts a slice for her and breaks off a bite-sized portion with the back of a silver fork, holding it out to her expectantly. He wants to feed her—she knows it numbers among his most longed for wishes. Spellbound, she goes to him, letting her lips close around that perfect piece of pie. Pumpkin and sugar and nutmeg and butter light up her tongue.

“This is the best pumpkin pie I have ever tasted,” she says, responding to his unasked question.

He grins, knowingly, and cuts a slice for himself. “We can take these in to the dining room if you like. I have been baking all morning and could use a break.”

“Hannibal…I’m not sure…” Tasting a bit of pie is one thing, taking a meal together feels like quite another.

“You did not need to come to my house today, Bedelia. I could have picked up the journals on Wednesday.”

“And you did not need to ask me for them. The back issues are available online for a small fee, I believe.”

They hold each other’s gazes, caught in the autumn sunlight like a dragonflies in amber, unable to say what they both know to be true. They are here because they want to be here, because they enjoy each other’s company. Because their clinical interactions within the walls of Bedelia’s therapy room are no longer enough.

Bedelia picks up her plate and moves to the dining room and Hannibal falls softly on her heels. They sit before the large glass window, watching the leaves fall, a silent waterfall of gold, savoring a rare moment in which they are neither patients nor colleagues, but simply themselves.


End file.
